


Thalmor Tactics Are Not Always What They Seem

by Euleogy



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dossier, I Don't Even Know, Other, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Thalmor, Torture, just read this I promise it's not awful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 14:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12278493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euleogy/pseuds/Euleogy
Summary: "After the war, contact was established and he has proven his worth as an asset. The so-called Markarth Incident was particularly valuable from the point of view of our strategic goals in Skyrim, although it resulted in Ulfric becoming generally uncooperative to direct contact."- Excerpt from the Thalmor Dossier on Ulfric StormcloakWhat kind of man, after suffering torture at the hands of the Thalmor, would go back and work with them in any regard? Was the Markarth Incident in some way directed by the Thalmor? Why would Ulfric at any point be considered an asset? How and why would he have been even remotely cooperative after suffering so? This work attempts to explore that possibility.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on a headcannon I have, that once shared with some friends, I was more or less asked to write it. They /really/ had to twist my arm for it (not).

" _After the war, contact was established and he has proven his worth as an asset. The so-called Markarth Incident was particularly valuable from the point of view of our strategic goals in Skyrim, although it resulted in Ulfric becoming generally uncooperative to direct contact._ "

**_\- Excerpt from the Thalmor Dossier on Ulfric Stormcloak_ **

 

* * *

 

         Sneaking into the Embassy was a poor decision, he'd admit that. Delphine had insisted it was the only way. Honestly, Delphine reeked of paranoia, but in her defense, if the Thalmor really were intent on capturing or killing her, her paranoia would seem effective at continuing her survival. Her paranoia, however, only seemed to stretch so far as her own life was concerned. At least, that was one of many bitter thoughts flitting through his mind as he slowly stood up from the chest he'd been digging through.

         There had been hundreds of small booklets, each on their own person. He'd found one for Ulfric, which he'd slipped into his small satchel more out of curiosity than anything else. He'd found one for each individual servant and noble that had been at the party tonight, as well as ones for nobles who hadn't. There were dossiers on Thalmor agents suspected of betrayal, and even dossiers on those who didn’t derive the pleasure from their work that they were supposed to. It was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. He had just found Delphine's and slipped it into his bag to join a man named Esbern's when the cold voice echoed through the room.

         "Do not make a move save to stand up."

         At first, he'd admit he hadn't thought it was directed at himself. He'd slowly sealed the chest back up, preparing to make his escape when he turned around to find a Thalmor Wizard staring at him, palms crackling with the Thalmor's favorite destruction spell. Slowly, he had stood, his mind flitting between ideas to get himself out of this mess. He could have saved himself the trouble, as the taste of petrichor flitted over his tongue, bouncing through his teeth, his skin tingling, before blackness encroached upon his vision.


	2. Chapter 2

         He awoke to a small room, on a clean cot. His clothes and armor remained, as did his bag of three dossiers and various loot from the Embassy. As he took inventory of both his items and his body parts, he became aware of the sound of a quill, scratching at paper. He sat up, sooner than was wise, he would admit. As his head spun slightly, he surveyed his surroundings.

         The room was almost more of a hallway, with single person cots along one wall, and nothing against the opposing. To his right was the end of the room, and a door nestled in the corner of the two walls. To his left the room stretched out, the length enough for seven cots, with spaces between them. Their heads were against the wall, their ends out in the room. Almost against the wall at the end of this room was a desk, with an Altmer woman behind it. She was the source of the light scratching noises. Behind her, covering the wall completely, were shelves with apothecary supplies. Insect parts, plants, as well as baskets of bandages.

         His movement caught her attention, and she looked up at him before resting her quill in a small dish to keep ink from dripping anywhere.

         "And our guest awakens. You really should heed commands better, my dear, or you might be in this room more often, and we wouldn't want that."

         "What are y-"

         "Shhh, it's alright. You must be weary. Sleep is never restful when you're forced into it. Let me fetch Ba'Treev."

         She stood and walked to the other end of the room, opening the door. There she stood in the doorway and called out for the 'Ba'Treev' in question. As she walked back back toward her desk, she was followed by a small Khajiit. From the clothing he assumed a girl. She almost looked like a child, though perhaps she was nearer to becoming a woman. He would admit to himself that he could never tell with Khajiit.

         The girl walked up to him and held out a fur-covered hand... or was it a paw?

         "It's alright, Ba'Treev will assist you. Please, your rooms are this way. Ba'Treev knows the way."

         "What do you mean my rooms?"

         "Please, follow Ba'Treev."

         Frowning, he allowed the Khajiit girl to hold his hand as he slid off the cot. He considered it a success that he only wobbled a little bit when he straightened. He slipped his bag over his shoulder, prepared to walk out with her.

         "Oh, please, Ba'Treev assures you will not need bag."

         "I'm keeping it with me."

         The girl glanced behind him, likely to the Altmer woman, before nodding.

         "Very well. Ba'Treev will allow it."

         She led him out of the medical hall and into a smaller hallway. There were fine paintings along the walls, interspersed with benches and tables with books, food, and jeweled statuettes. He found his fingers twitching at the thought of hitting this place for the guild, but maintained his behavior with the Khajiit girl. He could always swipe this ridiculous show of wealth on his way out later tonight.

         They stopped at a plain-looking door, not easily differentiated from any of the other doors they'd passed in the hallway. Ba'Treev opened it with a small key she produced from a fold in her apron, then ushered him inside ahead of her.

         "You see, Ba'Treev drew bath. Ba'Treev will now fetch supper. You bathe. Be done by Ba'Treev's return."

         She turned, left, and he heard the lock click behind him. He would have gone to investigate the lock if not for the fact that he'd already seen the key. It had looked intricate, with more dips and peaks than he could count in the split second he'd seen it. He would need ten lockpicks and an hour, at least, or he would need a copy of that key. For now he'd settle for a hot bath and a meal, though he gave the room a search for... well anything.

         It was a fairly standard guest room. If not for the lack of windows, and the knowledge that the Thalmor certainly captured him, he might have mistaken his location for the Blue Palace. The furniture was all extravagantly carved wood he didn't recognize, not that it was hard to find a wood he wouldn’t recognize, seeing as how he’d never been fabulously wealthy or a carpenter. He was sure an expert would find this wood on par with noble furnishings.

         He didn't want to even touch anything, conscious of how dirty he probably was. Besides that, he had a bigger problem. He needed to stash his bag. They could not take it. If he ever got back to Delphine he needed it. The bed on the right wall, with side tables to the left and right. A fireplace along the back wall with two chairs in front of it and a table between them. On the left wall a large armoire. Fur rugs. There was no where he could stash a bag that it wouldn't be easily found. But he could hide the dossiers. Those were the priority. He opened the bag, pulling out the three he'd bothered to keep, sliding them under the armoir. They'd be a bitch to get back out, but hopefully that meant no one would take them. The various valuables, looted armor, and weapons were left in the bag. They would hopefully look no deeper than that. He slid the bag under the bed. Let them think he was daft.

         There was a tub of hot water in front of the chair. He might have missed it if he hadn't been looking around. Maybe they put it there so the chairs could give him privacy? No. No he couldn't think like that. He looked in the armoire, pulling out drawstring trousers and a large tunic that might be a bit baggy looking, but both would fit well enough. He set them on a chair and stripped down, carefully stacking his armor on the other chair, dumping his underclothes on the floor. The armor should be able to go on over the trousers and tunic just fine. As he sunk into the piping hot bathwater, looking around the tub for an enchantment to keep it hot, he reminded himself of his priorities, and where he was.

         He couldn't risk thinking that his captors were providing him a courtesy as anything but a manipulation tactic. In fact, he fully expected to be yanked out of the tub and brought to a rack wet, naked, and cold. Nonetheless, he scrubbed the dirt from his skin, running his fingers through his hair. The water turned a murky brown as dried blood meshed with sweat and dead skin. As clean as he could get, he stood. Though unnoticed before, he saw that on the bed a swatch of fabric had been laid out, likely to dry himself. At least, he hoped it had only been unnoticed and that he hadn't missed someone sneaking into the room to place a towel. He dried himself off as best he could before dressing himself and sitting down on the bed. Upon feeling the down mattress, he laid back, a groan spilling from his lips as his spine stretched and popped.

         Then, the bolt slid in the door and it creaked open.

         "Ba'Treev has returned as she said with supper. Ba'Treev has bread and fruit, vegetables, even meat."

         She walked to the small table between the chairs without even looking at him, setting the tray down. The scent of cooked food and fresh bread was enough to rouse him from the bed, appraising the spread.

         A silver platter, with a large bottle of wine in the center. Surrounding it were grilled leeks, baked potatoes, butter-drenched cabbage, fresh bread, crispy looking horker, chicken, and... was that venison? In a bowl to the side were assorted berries and other edible fruits. Then, there was a small plate with two creme treats, a nut treat, and a sweet roll. Trying to feign indifference, he closed his mouth.

         "You put hot food next to the wine?"

         "Ba'Treev would never warm wine that is not meant to be warmed. Ba'Treev has paired the meal with spiced hot cider."

         It wouldn't be as strong as a wine, but it would be good enough to relax him and help him sleep. He would need to overcome his nerves and get plenty of rest if he was going to escape. Even still, he was waiting for the other shoe to drop as he sampled everything on the platter.

         He would be waiting for three days.


	3. Chapter 3

         He let himself get comfortable. That's what he told himself. If he'd been more aware, more vigilant. If he'd escaped before then. It didn't matter now. He knew it was only a matter of time.

         It was pain. Red-hot, like the blood that he swore must run an inch deep on the floor. Brilliant white, like the stars that flashed across his vision. It was acid, dripping from the tip of his tongue to the pit of his stomach. It was endless. It was nearly silent, save for his screams.

         They asked no questions. They made no demands. He barely even saw their faces, though what he saw were always Altmer, always Thalmor.

         It had started small. Whipping, or a paddle. Playthings, to him. Not only compared to the wounds he'd taken in battle, closer compared to the wounds he'd taken in bed. He'd mocked them at first. Tried to get any response. But it didn't even work. The impacts kept coming. When they were done with him, a potion was forced down his throat.

         He woke up in his bed, sore, but cleaned and redressed. He had faint memories, but part of him thought it might have just been a realistic dream if not for the bruises and welts marring his skin from his ankles to his shoulders.

 

* * *

 

         If he expected his days to change, he was wrong. Every day he was met with seemingly sincere smiles. Ba'Treev brought him his breakfast. He would go on walks accompanied by well-dressed Altmer. The Embassy must have been bigger than Delphine had thought, considering the three courtyards he would leisurely stroll through. He'd have a light lunch in late morning, then another light lunch in early afternoon. Then there would be a more formal dinner at mid-evening, and he would retire with perhaps an hour to read before he found his eyelids drooping and his book slipping from his grasp.

         And every night, he wept.

         And every night, they were silent.

         Still no questions, still no demands, and yet the pain they inflicted was ever growing.

 

* * *

 

         By week two they had moved into electricity, the taste of petrichor once again sitting on his tongue. They would take a blade to him, tracing patterns and designs that he could not and never would see, for they healed away the worst of the wounds, leaving him truly questioning his sanity once he woke.

         Week three they broke and set and magically healed more bones than he thought he had. Red hot shooting pains as they did fingers, then wrists, then forearms, all the way up to his shoulders which they would dislocate only to set everything and repeat the slow process on his legs.

         Week four, they drowned him, but it was a form of not-drowning. It seemed no matter how long the water swept into his nose and to the back of his throat, he never took it into his lungs. Then the rag would be moved and he would choke and gasp and beg. And then, while he was still wet, the lightning would again trace patterns in his skin that even the most skilled inker could never duplicate.

         By week five, he had lost count, and they forced such anguish on him that he had trouble remembering exactly what he said in his fits of delirium. He would later, upon attempting to recollect the methods, state that it was likely a form of Illusion magic, or perhaps even the conjuring of Daedra. He was not, however, well-versed in magic.

         All of this consumed his nights, and yet every morning, he woke up in his bed, knowing it wasn't a dream, but not knowing if his memory was right or wrong. Every morning life moved on. He was fed. He was bathed. He had all the books he could want. He even had offers to release 'tension'. Those were too suspicious not to turn down. By the end of week four, he did none of this. He ate what he was given. He went where told. He was a shadow, and he knew it. He had barely slept in the entire time was there, assuming he wasn't dreaming.

         The whole time, they smiled. They congratulated him on things he barely remembered doing at this point. Farmer's saved, Dragons slain, Barrows cleared. It was another life. He barely smiled and thanked them anymore. He had torn up three of his pillows one morning before Ba'Treev found him. She scolded him lightly and cleaned up the mess, sitting him in a chair commanding him to eat. Was she smiling as she did it? Was she pleased? Or was he seeing Thalmor everywhere now?

         By week five, he was broken. He had stopped begging. He had stopped bargaining. He had even offered information unprovoked, if only they would stop. They stopped, but not for two more days.

 

* * *

 

         It was a small room with a small fireplace with a small table and two chairs. On the table was an almost empty dossier, his dossier. His name, race, abilities, all catalogued. He didn't miss the upsidedown 'Asset' scribbled under his name. He'd seen that at the beginning of Ulfric's, before he'd decided to read the rest later. Had they done this to him as well? Would he and the Would-Be King have something in common by the end of this?

         As they asked their questions, he would in part pride himself for hesitating, as if that split second was enough to prove he didn't want to betray his allies. As they asked their questions, he would in part pride himself for only hesitating a split second, as if the shortness of the length was proof he was cooperating. As they asked their questions, he hated himself. His voice was hoarse from night after night of screaming in pain, and some nights sick pleasure. If he was honest there was no part of his body unscathed at this point. Even still, he managed to speak, to answer their questions.

         "Who sent you?"

         "Delphine."

         "Where is she?"

         "I met her at the Sleeping Giant Inn, in Riverwood."

         "Why did she send you?"

         "She thought the Thalmor were behind the dragons."

         The interrogator had paused. There was no pain, but still he flinched, an involuntary whimper escaping between his lips.

         The interrogator grinned.

         "Considering which of our dossiers have gone missing, I assume you're aware we are not."

         "I am aware."

         "Where are the dossiers?"

          It was his one secret. It was the one thing he needed to get back to Delphine. He hesitated, too long. He heard a snap of lightning. Was it intentional, or just a coincidence?

         "Where, are the dossiers?"

         His voice was a whisper, a broken whisper.

         "Under the armoir."

         "Clever, Dragonborn. Clever."

         And so on. How did he learn a shout? Where were all the word walls? Why did the Blades want a dragonborn so desperately? Why should the Thalmor believe in the tales of a World-Eater, in a child’s tale?

        "... Because... Because you saw him. Elenwen was there, at the... at Helgen. She was there I saw her, she saw Alduin. She saw how invincible he was. I've killed dragons. I've tried to kill him, but I'm missing something, or he'd be dead. I need to get back out and kill him."

         And they released him.

 

* * *

 

         Delphine had already been long gone. Esbern had left, tipped off by Brynjolf. His only two leads were gone. The only place he had left to go were the Greybeards. At first they didn't want to help him, but they decided it was up to Paarthurnax to decide. Paarthurnax the dragon. Their leader. Part of him wanted to hide. Part of him wanted to slay the dragon. Part of him wanted to worship the might he could feel radiating from the beast. Is this how all dragons felt, before the Dragon Wars? No wonder weak men had become their priests.


	4. Chapter 4

         He was home. A trip to Sovngarde later and he was home. Honeyside awaited him. His home, still smelling of the herbs hung to dry over his fireplace. They were old and brittle now, but if he couldn't use them he could burn them as kindling. The bed was musty, and he had to shake out the sheets and blanket, but it was his. His mattress that he had been so proud to finally afford, made of soft feather down. He was home. He was free.

 

         He could see them in his kitchen. At the foot of his bed. Through his windows. The ever-present mist in his basement always took on the form of Ba'Treev. Everytime he woke from a dream, unsure if it had been real, unsure if his soft mattress was really his, or if he was back in the room they’d given him. Had they taken him again? He began to spend more time in the Cistern. More time with loud thieves, celebrating at all hours one score or another. He slept peacefully, as the sounds of loud Nord accents speckled his dreams, instead of the clipped Altmer ones.

 

* * *

 

 

         "I've been looking for you. Got something I'm supposed to deliver, your eyes only. Let's see here... Ah! There it is. That should be it, gotta go!"

         A plain parchment letter, folded and dripped in red wax, an intricate seal. Probably another noble wanted him to fetch them some pearl or necklace or taproot.

 

                             _"Dearest Dragonborn,_

_It would appear your quest has concluded. We have matters to discuss. You know where to go. We expect you no later than the 5th of Harvest End."_

 

         It was unsigned, but they didn't need to sign it for his blood to run cold. It was already the 2nd. He couldn't get from Riften to Solitude in three days. It was still morning, so three and a half. He could run, get out of Skyrim. They would find him. They would punish him. No. No, he had to go, he'd have to ride hard. From Riften to Windhelm, trade horses. Then to Whiterun, trade horses. Then to Rorikstead, trade horses. Dragonstone, trade horses, make sure that one could climb. Then to the Embassy. He might make it.

 

* * *

 

         "You're late."

         "I-I know. I tried, I swear, I tried."

         "Trying is nothing without a result. The result is you were late."

         "I'm so-"

         Lightning ripped through him. Pummeling him into the ground. He opened his eyes to the grain of the wood floor, pressing into his cheek. His left leg still spasming.

         "P-please."

         His voice, a whisper, cracking, pathetic.

         Silence.

         He glanced up, daring to look at the Altmer in front of him.

         "We have a job for you. Stormcloak and Tullius are both going to go after a... 'Jagged Crown'. It doesn't matter which one gets it. You are to either get it first, or steal it from them en route before they can bestow it to their rulers. This tentative stalemate has gone on long enough, it’s time to rekindle the war."


End file.
